“You’ll what?You’llfixit?You can’t fix shit!”
A child starts crying.
James’s jaw ticks.I feel the leashed violence radiating off him, begging for release.His eyes find mine in the dim entryway.
I shake my head slightly.I know he wants to pounce right now, but not yet.Not until Farley’s wife and kid leaves the room.
James nods once and settles back into waiting.
“I have to get to work,” the woman says, her voice small.“I’ll check in later this morning.”
“Yeah, you fucking do that,” Farley grinds out.
We melt into a shadowed laundry room by the stairs, hidden but with a good view of the living room.Farley’s wife appears in the hall then, thin and stressed-looking, carrying a toddler on her hip, a small backpack clutched in her free hand.
She doesn’t see us, doesn’t look anywhere but the front door, her escape route.She hustles the child out, whispering soothing nonsense while the child continues to cry, and the door closes behind them with a soft click.
Silence settles, thick and waiting.
From the kitchen: “Finally.Some fucking peace.”
I step forward.James follows, my shadow given muscle and teeth.
We see Farley before he sees us.He sits with his bandaged stump resting on the kitchen table’s surface, a coffee mug steaming in his good hand.
He looks up as we close in.Confusion flickers across his features, then irritation.
“Who the hell are you?How’d you get in here?”
I pull out a chair across from him and sit, slow and unhurried, like I have all the time in the world.
Behind me, James positions himself between Farley and the only exit, a wall of muscle and barely controlled violence blocking the way out.
Farley’s eyes dart between us with no spark of recognition.He has no idea who we are.He doesn’t remember the woman he lied about in court, giving Vincent an alibi that kept a predator free.He doesn’t recognize the man who took his own hand.
He set his coffee cup down and reaches for his phone on the table.“I’m calling the cops—“
I shoot my hand out, pluck the phone from the table, and set it in my lap out of his reach.
“No,” I say quietly.“You’re not.”
His face pales.His good hand tightens around his coffee mug, a weapon, maybe, if he’s stupid enough to try.His gaze flicks to James, reassessing, then realizing he’s fucked.
“What do you want?”His voice cracks slightly.
I lean forward, elbows on the table, my hands folded.“You’re going to request a line-up, and when it happens, you’re going to identify the person who took your hand.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.“I don’t know who it was.”
“Yes, you do.”I pull out my own phone and swipe to a photo from the sheriff’s department website.It’s Detective Eddie Crowe’s official headshot, his expression serious, his electric-blue eyes blazing, the face of law and order.I turn the screen toward Farley.“But it wasn’t this guy.”
His eyes widen slightly.“Detective Crowe?But I don’t— I’ve never— I don’t understand.”
I withdraw the phone and pocket it.“Point to anyone else,” I continue, my voice dropping lower, softer, more dangerous.“The janitor.A random stranger on the street.Literally anyone else, just not Detective Crowe.”
Farley’s breathing picks up, shallow and quick.His gaze slides to James, still silent, still terrifyingly still.
“You’re going to request the line-up as soon as we leave.”
